I was thumbing through a lost notebook, Gentle Reader, and for this week’s Poetic Interlude I thought I’d post some of the unpolished fragments I found. A few of them have been worked over since, turned and tuned; these are the roughs. Mostly, they are orphaned lines, alone in the world. Enjoy.I. Recall the thrill of Novocaine Though heart is soft as stone, The winter dawn is jubilant:
The frost on brambles shone.
I end my vigil, for tonight –
My Uncle fades to bone. I know no comfort, deaf to grief, The room is flat, and oil;
Like hangover, I’m cross and crisp
My eyes begin to boil.
The sun, she rises anyway:
We sift him in the soil. II. I don’t know whence these demons came Or through which mental door;
I know I’ll either kill or cry-
My psyche is at war: I might claw out my viscera,
Or maybe slit my face:
Bisect my lower lip and jaw
And cut them into lace.
It’s possible I’ll murder you,
And tear into your skin –
A mouthful of carotid will
Not relieve my sin,
Or the turmoil that I’m in. III. I’m lost in vague miasma, the ash of what was thought – I buy another bottle, and contemplate my lot: IV.
Climb we now to hateful bed,
A hundred horrors in our head:
Anger, pain – prop up the eye;
The spiteful hours trickle by.
©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved